Macomb High School - Spiderweb Yearbook (Macomb, IL)

Page 33 text:

any folly, any mistakes or error. She and the young monk met often in her rounds of fashionable religious service, and each was drawn toward the other. But gradually the interest became a friendship deeper, stranger than any the monk had ever known. They met by chance one night at the fountain in the rose garden. She was dressed in thin, shimmering white, and the moonlight, shedding its quiet radiance upon her. transformed her into a spirit creature. Of late the man had felt himself growing to trust her more than anyone he had ever known since those early days when his childish faith had been destroyed. This night she was dearer than ever, and so he forgot that he was not to trust people; that he was not to love women with the human love: he forgot all but that she was ineffably lovely and dear. She talked, and he stood looking at her. Then, suddenly, she felt his arms about her and his lips kissing her face and hair and eyes. She could feel his great passion and something m her broke down : for the fire in her own heart was started. Then ihey broke apart and stood staring at each other there in the moonlight. Bach knew what had been done, and each knew that their lives were not to be like other lives. (). you must go away; you must never see me again, for you have given yourself to God. and—and—Oh ! you must go. and you must—forget me. Go now. while I have the courage to send you! God help you—-and me!” Both were appalled at the mistake; and when the monk could think, he regretted that he had not seen life in its full richness before twenty; and that, having taken the vows, he could not have lived up to them. Then came days and months of questioning whether he should throw over the holy vows; whether he should not do as others had done; why he should not love and be loved. At length came doubt if life were worth the living: doubt of future and everlasting life: doubt whether there was a God. Mis soul had been still struggling with the weary, weary problem when he. in passing, was drawn into the church by a cry of soft, low music which touched with a strange, vibrant force a chord in his own sick heart. He knelt, and as he tried to pray, the falterings. the struggles, the doubts gave way to a passiveness which he could not understand. He had heard but not seemed conscious of the music until it had permeated his whole being. Then, filled with responsive sympathy, he read in the prayerful outpourings the musician's plea to the God of his music-loving soul for a life less dissolute, less out of accord with his divine gift. And the voice of the passionate cry was heard and answered, if not in the wrecked life of the organist, at least in the storm-tossed heart of the churchman. Now he knew the soothing tenderness of the bather and felt the desire to want to be right. Slowly he passed down the aisle out into the solitary, moonlighted streets. He had suffered, and now there was peace. LEXORE STEPHEN'S. - 29 -

Page 32 text:

PEACE THAT PASSETH UNDERSTANDING The trees, house-tops, chimneys, the belfry tower were silhouetted sharply against the fast darkening sky. As the dusk came on a light flickered in the church windows and then continued to send forth its little rays of brightness. A solitary figure moved slowly along the street. When it came opposite the church there was a hesitation: then slowly it climbed the stone steps, moved up the dimly lighted aisle, and touching the forehead and the breast sank on its knees in one of the pews. Only two candles were burning; one lighted the altar, showing plainly the cross, the vases of roses, and the altar desk; the other fell on the uplifted face of an organist who was playing soft, low music. The figure, which sank on its knees, had been filled with struggling. hitter thoughts. Then, from the utter weariness of the long-continued struggle, the passionate bitterness of it gradually decreased : but the figure still knelt, for there was a weariness, the unutterable weariness of life, which needed someone to say, “Come unto me, ye that are heavy laden, and 1 will give you rest”—a rest which will give the peace that passeth all understanding.' Slowly the music sank into the soul of the figure, who for the first time became aware of it. It spoke of gayety, life, joy; then of passionate love and mistake and regret. It told of questionings, trials, doubts, and of terrible soul struggle. Then it became soft, yet strong as the love of God. It brought tears to the eyes of the weary listener. The strains ceased; the organist disappeared. But the music had performed its mission. As the figure raised its head to look on the cross, • he altar light fell on the striking, gaunt features of a man—a young man of twenty-eight years—a man whose long, dark-complexioned face showed passionate energy; whose high arched nose, blue-gray eves, shining under the heavy black brows, large mouth with its prominent under lip. spoke of power and of acute sensitiveness. “O, Lord God! whither Thou guidest. teach me to go. Make me want to be true.” The head sank again on the slim, delicate, almost transparent hands; then slowly, with bowed head and fingers clasping a black metal cross, he passed out. This man. the son of a wealthy family, had been brought up with the same advantages given his brothers and sisters, but with far different results. He was extremely sensitive, and as a child had often been hurt by his parents' coldness and seeming lack of love. An idea that all people were insincere and hypocritical grew from this lack of understanding. Throwing home, friends, society, all aside, world-weary at twenty he entered the monastery. After having spent the years of his novitiate, he was sent on a clerical mission to a gayer, livlier city, where he was put in a place all life and joy. He was young, and gradually a love for the light and glitter of it all grew upon him. There was a young girl, beautiful and sweet and pure, loving the life and flutter of the city, really innocent and ignorant of - 28 —

Page 34 text:

THE MISSION OF A PAINTER •MSMM There is a world of beauty in pictures, though it escapes the notice of many; because, while they wish to see it, they do not know how. They have not learned that the worth of a picture depends much Ivss upon its subject than upon the artist's conception and treatment of it; that before we can read the picture, we must know the painter. Kor the life of the artist and his environment have much to do with his creations. Raphael had a pleasure-loving nature, seeing beauty in everything. lie loved to depict life's cheerful face, her gentler phases. He is remembered above all else as a painter of Madonnas. Ilis portraits are marvels of character portaval; his own best thoughts and noblest ideas have been translated for them into form. We read his highest moments in his Sistine Madonna, or in his Betrothal of Mary and Joseph; or we feel his very religion in “The Transfiguration. While Raphael peoples his canvas with creatures of another realm. Rembrant draws his material from the common world about us. In place of the fair women and charming children with whom Raphael delights us. he chooses his models from wrinkled old men and beggars. If in the first glance at his pictures we see only a transcript of common life, a second look discovers something in this common existence that we have never before seen there. e look again, and we see behind the commonplace exterior the poetry of the inner life. All his life Rembrant observed and remembered. hen a small boy he would sit by the dikes in Holland and note the great mills, the bargemen, and the cattle grazing on the low. flat country. These with easy skill he transferred to the paper which was his contsant sketching companion. We have all seen copies of that masterpiece of Da Vinci, in whom Italian art reached its climax . ere we able to look at the original canvas we would cease to say. 1 his is only a picture. It would become a mysterious reality; something to be studied and appreciated. Millet's peasants are types of thousands in the humble walks of life, patiently bearing their burdens, though the world has long neglected them .Yet in Millet’s conception they are no less men. brave men and heroes. Millet, so enamored of toil and the fields, was allied to them, indeed, bv the very fibre of his nature. It was the tenderness and love of the peasant grandmother which helped to inspire the speaking souls of his peasant women. Deeply touched by the mi man side of the wdrld he says: “The gay side of life never shows itself to me. The gayest thing ! know is the calm, the silence, which is so sweet.” What is it we admire in “The Sower? A hundred - 30 -